These Scars
by Andalina
Summary: Post-Dark Knight. SPOILERS! The lives of Bruce Wayne and Batman have now been changed forever, and Bruce struggles with the decision of where to go from here as a new, mysterious enemy who may possess something that Bruce wants begins to rise in Gotham.
1. Prologue

**These Scars**

Prologue

_"Rachel! Raaaay-chell…."_

_ The childish voice of a young boy rang out across the massive grounds of Wayne Manor. A peal of girlish laughter was the only response that he received, but it was enough to send him running out of his hiding spot behind a large hedge. "Raaaaay-chelll!!"_

_ The boy was named Bruce Wayne, and the large estate which now served as the perfect place for a game of hide and seek had been in his family for generations. Bruce's wide dark eyes were lit up in a rare moment of light heartedness, his elusive smile—an exact replica of Martha Wayne's—beamed briefly across his face as he ran off in pursuit of his best friend. He was serious for a young boy, intense and insightful in a way that most children his age and many adults found off-putting. He was brilliant in math, science, and, oddly, drama, could outrun and outfight even the oldest students in his elite private school (which had, in turn, resulted in most students keeping their distance from him), and had a surprising, subtle sense of humor that only a few people ever really got to see—his mother and father, Alfred the family butler, and his one true friend, Rachel Dawes, with whom he was currently playing a game of hide and seek._

_ The sun was beginning to set, and the formal garden of Wayne Manor was beginning to grow dark. A sense of panic began to lodge inside Bruce's stomach. Where was she? His dark brows knit together in worry as he stopped for a moment to think. _

_ "Raaaaay-chell?!" he tried again._

_ There was another peal of laughter to his right. He set off in a swift run, calling her name once more. Nothing. He was lost in a maze of the perfectly trimmed, boxy privet hedges that his mother loved, and the setting sun was quickly turning it into a labyrinth of dark corners and dead ends. _

_ "Rachel?" His voice caught on the last syllable, revealing the panic that was making its way into his throat. "Rachel, where are you?!"_

_ Another laugh. "I'm here Bruce…you just have to find me."_

_ He rounded a few more corners, his feet pounding the velvety green grass flat as he ran. Panic was welling in his throat. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't move. And then, quite suddenly, she was right in front of him. Eight year old Rachel, with her long brown hair done up in two braids, grass stains on the knees of her tights. She was there—she'd always been there, but he'd been too blind to see it. And then, just as quickly, she began to grow, changing quickly as though someone had hit fast forward on a VHS tape._

_ The older Rachel, the woman whom Bruce had loved as a boy and loved, in an even deeper, fiercer way, now, stood in front of him. She wore the dark, formal work clothes that he'd last seen her in, and her beautiful blue eyes were looking at him in that wry, amused way that she had had—the look that saw straight through the many layers of Bruce Wayne to his very core._

_ "I'll always be here Bruce…you just have to find me," she repeated._

_ And then there was an explosion, a burst of flame, and she, the woman that Bruce had loved to oblivion, was no longer there._

In the penthouse of Gotham City's most exclusive apartment building, Bruce Wayne, the most coveted bachelor in all of America, perhaps even the world, woke up screaming. The bed sheets, made of expensive Egyptian cotton, were drenched with sweat and twisted uncomfortably around him. His face was slick with either tears or sweat—he couldn't tell—that he hurried to wipe away with the back of his hand. He glanced at the clock and groaned—three o clock in the morning. Behind him, through the large floor to ceiling windows, Gotham slept, comforted by a pillow of lies, by the belief that the figurative light at the end of the tunnel was visible. Bruce Wayne knew better.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror opposite the bed. Traces of that young boy were still clearly evident in his intense eyes, thin lips, and thick brown hair. Childish roundness had given way to razor sharp cheekbones and eyes more intense and serious than any billionaire playboy's had a right to be. It was Thomas Wayne's face, with traces of Martha Wayne found in the elusive smile that had become increasingly rare since Thomas and Martha's death years before. It was a handsome face, one that the photographers for Page Six loved. However, this face was not the one that the paparazzi were used to seeing, certainly not the face of a famously spendthrift young billionaire. The face staring back at him was ravaged by pain, anger, heartache, and, most of all, confusion.

Oddly enough, although it was three in the morning, this was the first time in recent months that Bruce Wayne was actually looking at himself—his true self, not hidden behind the figurative mask of a wealthy trust-fund brat or the literal mask of Batman. He stared for a full minute, emotions churning inside of him until it felt as though he was going to throw up.

And then he thought of her, of the dream.

And then, for the first time since Rachel Dawes had disappeared in a cloud of fire two days before, Bruce—not Mr. Wayne the billionaire who ran off with the entire Moscow ballet, not Batman, the caped crusader turned vigilante running from the law—allowed himself a few tears, most for the woman he'd loved more than anything in the world, but some for the innocent young boy who he would never again be.

In those moments, Bruce Wayne realized one thing. His life was completely changed. He'd gone from an idealistic boy to a vengeful young man lost in the past to, yet again, an idealistic man who'd thought that he could save his city. Now all of that was gone, and Mr. Wayne, Batman, and Bruce—all three of the very different men that lived within that one face—were stuck with the decision of where they were supposed to go from there.


	2. Chapter One

**These Scars**

**Chapter One**

Anger was coursing through Bruce Wayne's veins like fire. Anyone who knew the billionaire moderately well—or at least thought that they did—knew that he wasn't exactly a patient man and that, when push came to shove, he had a temper that was best to be avoided. Therefore, Alfred had quietly handed him the morning newspaper before swiftly exiting the living room in search of the safety of the kitchen. His butler's actions had confused Bruce until he'd caught sight of a small article on the front page entitled "Beautiful Local Hero's Tragic Death." Two sentences into the article, Bruce had been ready to tear the thing to shreds, the second sentence having been an egregious assumption on the part of the reporter who claimed to be unsure if the death of Rachel Dawes was the work of the Joker or the "criminal who'd fooled all of Gotham"—Batman himself.

Bruce grit his back teeth together as he quickly read the rest of the article. A huge range of emotion was churning his stomach—frustration at the fact that he couldn't defend Batman by saying how he'd tried to save her, guilt over the fact that maybe the reporter was right in saying that he'd had a hand in Rachel's death, and an overwhelming pain caused by the fact that Rachel was truly dead and was being remembered in such a dishonest way. The article made her out to be some pretty, blue eyed girl who'd caught the eye of hot-shot lawyer Harvey Dent and managed to cling to his coattails in his meteoric rise to fame as Gotham's DA.

Bruce threw the newspaper across the room where it slammed into the polished window and landed in a dismembered pile on the floor. Having been watching from the sidelines, Alfred took this as an indication that it was now safe to enter the room.

"Anything that I can get for you, sir?"

Bruce shook his head, studying a scar that ran the length of his palm, a relic from his world traveling days. "Alfred, do you think that all of this was worth it?"

"What do you mean sir?"

"I mean everything that I've done for the past eight years. Leaving and then coming back, becoming Batman, becoming close with Rachel again. I feel as though I've been completely split in two. Everything that's good for Batman is horrible for Bruce Wayne and the people that I care about."

"I believe that this is what you call a crossroads, sir. You have to decide which direction you're going to take. You can put away the suit and the fancy weapons and just become Bruce Wayne again, or you can keep on fighting and sacrificing for Gotham."

"Except that most of Gotham thinks that I'm a murdering psychopath that likes to dress up as a bat to kill people."

"With all due respect, that was your choice, was it not? Mr. Gordon seemed to think that it was a bad idea, and I'm sure that Rachel would have thought so as well."

"Rachel left this penthouse and died because the real Harvey Dent decided to take the blame for Batman's actions. Gotham has seen too much hardship, too many corrupt political leaders take power. I think that seeing their hero Harvey Dent being turned by the Joker would have broken them. Batman isn't a hero. He can take it."

"That may be what you think, sir, but the last time I checked, all of the little boys and girls in this city weren't running around pretending to be Harvey Dent. The news may be saying that Batman did some awful things, but, when it comes down to it, it wasn't Harvey Dent who saved the city two nights ago, and they may not know that now, but someday it will come out, and you will be a hero, whether you like it or not."

"Until, I don't think that Batman will be the most effective way of fighting crime, anymore."

With that, Alfred took a step back to fully look at his young master. He hadn't always agreed with Bruce Wayne's alter-ego—he'd even questioned the Batman's integrity at a few points—but the defeat that was clouding Bruce's voice prompted him to try to convince him otherwise. "Why do we fail, Master Bruce?"

"Not this again, Alfred…"

"Answer the question."

"To pick ourselves back up again."

"Now what do you think your father would want you to do in this situation? Would he want you to put away everything that you've been working for just because you've hit a bump in the road?"

"The woman I loved died because of me, Alfred. That's hardly a bump in the road."

"Rachel Dawes knew the danger that she was in when she left this penthouse. You can hardly put all of the blame for her death on yourself."

"If I had just stepped up…been honest about the fact that I am Batman."

"Then the Joker would still be out there, killing innocent people. Miss Dawes may not have realized it at the time, but I'm sure, if she were still with us, that she would agree with me now. I think that Gotham needs Batman now more than ever, whether or not they view him as a hero or vigilante. You were a sign of hope, and you can become that symbol again."

"How?"

"You need to get back up, Master Bruce. Get back up and start fighting again. But do it differently this time—know your limits, and know when Batman ends and Bruce Wayne begins."

"I don't even know if I know that anymore. I thought that this whole Batman thing would be over by now, that someone in Gotham would have stepped up and would have been strong enough to take my place. I thought that Harvey Dent was that guy, the one who could be the big hero that Batman never will be."

"The good thing about life is that you get a lot of second chances. I know that things seem a bit cloudy now, but right now, I think that you're being given another chance to help to save your city. Bruce Wayne still has a chance at being a hero."

Bruce took a long look at his butler. "I'm not sure about that anymore."

"Well you'll have to decide soon…you and I were the last two people to see Miss Dawes alive before she was taken. Commissioner Gordon is coming here to question Bruce Wayne about what he thinks happened."

Bruce could only stare at Alfred in horror as the old butler walked out of the room.

* * *

"It's good to see you, Mr. Wayne. I'm glad to see that you haven't sustained any injuries from that car crash." Gordon and another police officer named Parker had just been brought up to the penthouse.

Bruce shook Parker's and then the Commissioner's hands, pretending to not quite remember what Gordon was talking about. "What…oh, right…that. I was trying to make the light…I'm just glad that I got away without a ticket. And call me Bruce."

Gordon laughed a little nervously. It was obvious that he felt out of place in the simply decorated but obviously expensive penthouse. Bruce was also feeling a little out of place. He felt a little panicked talking to the Commissioner in his normal voice, without a mask hiding his true identity. Gordon was a man that Batman knew very well, but he was also a man with whom Bruce Wayne would never associate

"Could we keep this quick? I have a date with this Parisian debutante," Bruce said, checking the Rolex on his wrist for effect. He was dressed in an impeccably cut suit, partially because it was something that a playboy with too much money would wear, but mostly because it would conceal the bulky bandage covering the stab wound he'd received from the Joker on his shoulder. He couldn't help but think that it was a bit ironic to be pretending that he didn't know Gordon at all when he'd taken a bullet for the guy and his family the night before—the garishly purple and black bruise caused by the bullet hitting his Kevlar suit was spread across his chest as proof.

"Uh, yes, yes…sorry if this is an intrusion, but Rachel was a good friend, and I'd like to find out as much as I can about what happened to her."

"Yes, well, this is Gotham. If you don't get a few visits from the police every year, you're not a true Gothamite." Bruce was fully in his Bruce Wayne, Billionaire persona—charismatic, blandly humorous, perfectly dressed, and completely oblivious unless a woman in a short skirt happened to be nearby.

Gordon laughed, put at ease by Mr. Wayne's easygoing manner.

"Please, take a seat," Bruce added, leading the Commissioner and Parker into the living area. Alfred walked in with a pitcher of water and two glasses on a tray. He put it down on the coffee table and left as though he was an insignificant butler and not an accomplice to the most wanted man in Gotham.

Bruce, Parker and Gordon exchanged a few more pleasantries about the weather and the spectacular view before Gordon pulled out a notebook. "I realize that this is pretty unconventional, and that the mayor is trying to dismiss Miss Dawes as nothing more than a victim of the Joker, but I think that I owe it to her and to Harvey Dent to clear up a few things about the case."

Bruce nodded. He had suspected this much, that Gordon wasn't going to let the case blow over. In the hour or so he'd had to prepare for the interview, he'd tried to formulate some believable answers. His problem was that it was easy to lie to and about himself when it came to his split Bruce Wayne/Batman persona, but it was harder to lie about the people that he cared about, particularly Rachel.

"I understand that Rachel came here after Dent alerted her that she was in danger."

Bruce nodded.

"You were childhood friends?"

He nodded again. "Her mother worked at Wayne Manor until my parents died. We grew up together."

"It's a bit odd for a billionaire to stay such close friends with the daughter of a previous staff member, is it not?" Parker asked, jutting in.

Bruce felt his temper prickle. Gordon shot the younger officer a look. "Rachel was my best friend and one of the few things about Gotham that I missed when I was gone."

"But I suppose that Dent wasn't too happy about your relationship."

"What does this have to do with Rachel's death?" Bruce answered too quickly, his irritation showing.

Parker looked at him innocently, sensing that he'd hit a nerve. "Just trying to establish some background here."

"No, Dent and I weren't going to be great friends, but he made Rachel happy. That's all that mattered."

Gordon jumped in before his partner could do anymore damage. "Do you know why Rachel decided to come here?"

"I guess because she felt safe here. Safer than she would have been if she was out there with Dent, at least."

"But the Joker had broken in here during your party for Harvey Dent a few days before…"

Bruce shrugged. "The comfort of a childhood friend, then? I don't really know. I am the last person to ask if you're trying to understand a smart woman."

"And do you know what made her leave?"

Bruce had anticipated this question. Unfortunately, it was the one that he'd been unable to think of a good answer to. "No," he answered shortly, lying only partially. He'd never found out if Rachel had left because she was angry about him saying that he was going to turn himself in as Batman or if it was because he hadn't turned himself in and had let Dent take the fall.

"Were you romantically involved with Ms. Dawes?" Parker asked.

"What are you, a tabloid writer?" Bruce asked irritably. "She was with Dent." He remembered the very last time he'd seen her, the way she'd looked at him after he'd worked up the nerve to kiss her. In that brief moment, they'd just been Rachel and Bruce, just as they'd been in childhood before the future of Gotham had fallen so heavily on their shoulders.

Parker snorted. "You're Bruce Wayne. Has that ever stopped you?"

Bruce let out a shout of laughter, falling back into his easy-going mask. "No, I guess not. But, no, Rachel and I were not 'romantically involved.'" He raised his fingers in quotes as he spoke the last two words, openly mocking Parker, who immediately looked down with a sour expression on his face. Bruce wondered if parts of this interview were going to mysteriously end up on Page Six tomorrow thanks to this guy.

Gordon nodded, making a note on his pad. "Did she say where she was going?"

Bruce shook his head.

"You should know, Mr. Wayne, that we did everything that we could to try to save her. The Batman himself seemed very fond of her and tried to save her himself." The look in Gordon's eyes was so sincere that, for a moment, Bruce considered breaking down and telling him everything. The expression on the Commissioner's face when he simply spoke the word "Batman" was enough to let Bruce know that he still had at least one supporter in Gotham. He didn't know whether or not that was a good thing.

"If only he hadn't been outwitted…" Bruce answered quietly, looking down at his hands. He wished with all his heart that Batman hadn't taken the Joker's word about the locations of Rachel and Dent. Hadn't he known that the man was twisted and evil? Hadn't he known that he was almost certainly not telling the truth? Bruce hadn't had the time to go through those thoughts quite yet, and they were crashing down on him now. How could he have been so stupid?

Batman, in his idiotic belief that people could be trusted, had as good as killed Rachel Dawes.

Disgust in his alter-ego and in himself was rising in Bruce's throat, and the metallic taste of his anger at himself was filling his mouth.

"Bruce? Mr. Wayne? Mr. Wayne?!" Gordon was watching Bruce's face, an expression of concern across his own. "Are you alright?"

Bruce looked up at the clock. "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to cut this short," he said, fighting desperately to keep his voice even. "I hope that you get to the bottom of this, Commissioner. Officer Parker, it was good to meet you. Good luck."

And with that, Bruce stood up and walked straight into his bedroom to begin packing.

* * *

**AN: **Okay. so not much action in this chapter...it's more of a set up for more exciting things to come, so stay tuned :-) Also, thanks for the reviews and everything!!


	3. Chapter Two

**A/N: **Thank you soooo much for all of the reviews, author alerts, and favorites!! Haha, I didn't think that anyone would actually pay attention to this. Since a few people have seemed interested, I'm just going to say now that any sort of romance coming into this story is still up in the air--it's possible and probable, but certainly not definite. Don't worry, Mary Sue won't be stopping by for a visit.

I apologize in advance if this chapter seems shorter or not as well written as the previous two--my life took a turn for the dramatic this week, but I really wanted to get this chapter up (I'm trying to do a chapter a week in case you haven't noticed). I promise that everything will be back to normal next week :-)

**These Scars**

**Chapter Two**

Some cities like London and New York had a number of prominent families, old money clans whose names were plastered across half of the city. Gotham was a slightly newer city and therefore had exactly two. The most prominent—the Waynes—had dwindled down to only one heir, with a few stray aunts, uncles, and cousins here and there. Second to the Waynes—as they had been for generations—was the Hayes family. While the Waynes were known as great philanthropists and the creators of one of the world's largest business empires, the Hayes family was simply known for its exceptionally large bank account and lavish apartments and houses all around the city. They'd never managed to garner the absolute respect that the name Wayne commanded wherever it went, and that had always been something that annoyed their current heiress, the "forty four year old" (thanks to the miracles of Botox and facelifts, she hadn't given her real age in fifteen years) Alexandra Hayes.

Alexandra Adora Hayes had gone to school with a certain Martha Madison before the lucky girl had managed to snag Thomas Wayne and his exceptionally large bank account. Alexandra had tried and failed to do that exact same thing, although now, looking back, she was rather relieved that she'd let Martha have him, since the bitch had gotten exactly what she deserved in the end (and the tabloids had taken a rather nice picture of Alexandra pretending to weep behind her black veil at the Wayne funeral—it had all looked very realistic, thanks to a few drama classes that she'd taken in preparatory school). Nevertheless, with no family of her own to distract her with more important affairs, Alexandra had had years to nurse her grudge against the unsuspecting Wayne family.

Her limo driver stopped at a light right in front of Wayne Tower in the center of the city. There was construction everywhere as the city tried to patch up the twisted mess that was the monorail line that Thomas Wayne had once envisioned for the city. Some freak accident a few months ago had caused part of it to collapse, not that Alexandra cared—public transportation was so pleblian.

Her cell phone rang, and she rushed to pull it out of her pocket. "Alexandra Hayes."

"I've got those reports that you wanted, Miss Hayes. The ones that you needed for Wayne Industries?"

"And?"

"There's nothing. Everything is clean, everything's legal. You'd think that that Lucius Fox and Bruce Wayne are freakin' saints or something."

Alexandra frowned. This was disappointing. She'd been hoping to wipe that smirk off of Bruce Wayne's idiotic face by taking down his company using his own mistakes, but the information that she'd gathered in the past few weeks was beginning to make that look impossible.

"Call Ajax. Tell him that I want a meeting."

The voice on the phone immediately turned nervous. "Are you sure, Miss? This won't look good if—"

"Then we won't get caught," Alexandra interrupted, her voice as icy as her blue eyes. "This is Gotham. The public won't care if a few people are found floating face down in the river."

There was a pause. "Are you sure that you want to go after Wayne Enterprises, Miss Hayes?"

"What do you think will happen? The Batman will come after me?" Alexandra snorted and snapped the cell phone closed. She tapped on the glass separating her from the driver. "There's been a change of plans. Take me straight home. I have some work that I need to get done."

And with that, she leaned back against the comfortable leather seat, a wide smile on her thin, cold face.

* * *

Bruce was throwing clothing haphazardly into a suitcase open on his bed, making a messy pile of neatly pressed Brooks Brothers pants and Versace shirts that probably could have supported a middle class Gotham family for a month. His face was expressionless.

"Pardon me, Master Bruce, but where exactly are you going?" Alfred, who was standing in the doorway, asked.

"Anywhere but here," was the curt answer that he received.

"And what exactly is that going to achieve?"

Bruce paused in the middle of messily folding a jacket. "I can't be Batman anymore, but I can't not be Batman in Gotham. I'm leaving."

"With all due respect sir, you can't just leave."

"I did eight years ago."

"Yes, when you were twenty and had nothing to lose. You may not realize it now, Master Bruce, but this city needs you."

Bruce shook his head and zippered the suitcase closed. He then reached for his favorite leather jacket and the keys to the most inconspicuous car in his garage, a jet black Land Rover that had been upgraded with just about every special feature imaginable.

"I'll call when I know what I'm doing. Look after the penthouse and the Manor for me, will you?"

Alfred paused, looking at his young master for a full minute. Bruce cringed under his gaze, which reminded him of being a little boy again, but he didn't look away. Finally, Alfred gave up with a sigh. "Be safe, Master Bruce. Come back soon."

"We'll see."

And with suitcase in hand, Bruce Wayne walked out of the penthouse.

* * *

He didn't get very far.

The Land Rover was screeching down a street in one of Gotham's many bad neighborhoods as Bruce took a short cut to the freeway. The inside of the SUV was dark and silent, making him feel uncomfortable. Instead of being alone with his thoughts—something that he really didn't want to be at the moment—he reached over and flipped on the radio.

Bruce Wayne was not much of a music person—he had a few bands that he liked and would listen to every once in awhile, but he didn't have the time to be an avid music aficionado like so many people his age.

_Huh…maybe that's what I can do now, _he thought to himself, thinking of all of the free time he now had. Maybe he could actually date like a normal person, or take up a sport that didn't involve some rare martial art form ten times more lethal than a gun. Or maybe he could concentrate on being a better person—the media would love that. He'd be the new Bruce Wayne. Maybe he'd actually be able to do some good without wearing a mask for a change.

He flipped through some of the FM stations, not quite sure what he was looking for. He rarely drove this car—he preferred his Lamborghini—so there weren't any preset stations. He couldn't find anything except commercials, a few bad pop stations, and static. He gritted his teeth in frustration, knowing that his next move was not a smart one. Like his right had had a life of its own, it flipped the radio to AM and quickly found the police frequency.

Apparently old habits really did die hard.

_I'm not looking for anything…I just need something to listen to, _he told himself.

By now, Bruce recognized most of the police officer's voices and could even place many of those voices with faces. He continued through the darkening streets of Gotham, slightly soothed by the familiar banter between a few veteran officers.

Just as Bruce was about to turn onto the entrance ramp to the Gotham City Freeway, there was a sharp crackle as someone switched on their radio to make an announcement.

Bruce froze as he listened, his hand gripping the gearshift like it was a lifeline.

"…_break-in at Wayne Tower. Backup and emergency personnel needed. Repeat—break-in at Wayne Tower. At least five casualties, one suspected kidnapping…"_

Even though he was halfway up a one-way entrance ramp, Bruce suddenly came to himself and grabbed the steering wheel, spinning the large SUV one hundred and eighty degrees. The Land Rover shuttered and leaned over on two wheels for a few seconds—it wasn't the maneuverable sports car that Bruce was used to. Ignoring the angry horns and gestures of the people behind him, Bruce made it off of the ramp and hit the Gotham streets at almost eighty miles per hour, his heart beating just as fast. Wayne Tower was never broken into. It was one of the safest buildings in the city, thanks to the millions of dollars that Wayne Enterprises put into security each year. It would have taken a serious criminal mastermind to figure out how to get past the lobby, let alone attack employees.

Cutting through side streets and large alleyways, he made it to Wayne Tower just as the other emergency personnel and backup police force was showing up. The area was cordoned off, so Bruce double parked a block away and ran, pushing aside the burgeoning crowd of curious bystanders and a few reporters.

"I'm sorry sir, authorized personnel only," a strict looking female police officer said, putting a hand out to stop him.

"I'm Bruce Wayne! This is my building." The words came out fast and angry—he didn't have time for this.

"Right, and I'm Paris freaking Hilton," the officer cracked, not even looking at him.

Fumbling through his wallet, Bruce finally found his access card to the building. He held it up with his driver's license in the woman's face. "See?!"

The officer immediately looked scared and apologetic. "Sorry, sir. Right this way…." She ushered him past the line and into the empty area in front of the building. He could see a group of EMTs wheeling a stretcher out through the main doors. One of the windows above looked as though it had been blown out and shards of glass littered the ground, gleaming a foreboding red in the light from the sunset.

Bruce looked around him, searching for a familiar face in the police force. There he was—Commissioner Gordon. Bruce hurried over, not caring about putting on his airheaded public persona.

"Gordon! What's going on?"

Gordon looked shocked to see Bruce Wayne standing at the scene of a crime, but he hid it well. "Your tower was attacked by a team of criminals this afternoon, Mr. Wayne. We're not sure how they got in yet, but they made it to the top floor. Five people are wounded, four of them very seriously—gunfire and possibly something else. They've all been taken to local hospitals. And we've just confirmed that one person is missing, kidnapped by the looks of things."

Bruce swallowed hard. The top floor—that was wear all of the executives and department heads were. "And who would that be?"

Gordon looked at him sympathetically. "I'm sorry about this, Mr. Wayne. According to the rest of the board, you two were very close…it's Lucius Fox."

Bruce felt as though his knees were about to give out.

His parents. Rachel. And now the man who, along with Alfred, had become like a father to him.

Gordon placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Please, Mr. Wayne. I have to ask you—do you or Fox have any enemies that you know of who would have done this?"

It took everything that Bruce had to not break out in maniacal laughter. Instead, he tried to look thoughtful. "There are people who don't like us, obviously, but I can't think of anyone specific who would pull this."

The expression on Gordon's face made it obvious that he didn't quite believe him.

Another officer walked up to Gordon and handed over a report, which the Commissioner scanned briefly. He shook his head. "This is insane. They must have had people planted inside."

The officer shrugged and looked up at the huge building above them, a building that had once encouraged the citizens of Gotham that better times were ahead. Now it looked dark and strangely empty in the twilight.

"Where's that damn Batman when you need him, eh?"


	4. Chapter Three

**A/N:** Thank you for all of the reviews, alerts, and favorites guys!! Another quick apology—sorry this took so long. I'm in the process of moving back into college so, like the previous chapter, this one isn't quite up to my expectations. I apologize for any typos and/or inconsistencies and the slightly short length…I'm going to go through it again in a few days and make corrections, but I didn't want to make you wait any longer. Expect another chapter within a week and a half or so!!

**These Scars**

**Chapter Three**

_"Where's that damn Batman when you need him?"_

The police officer's casual statement had been echoing in Bruce Wayne's head since he'd heard it, becoming something of a mantra for the young and very confused billionaire. Everything about his "Batman" persona was basically summed up in that one question—yes, his alter ego deserved that "damn" right before his name, at least in the eyes of the general public, but, nevertheless, they still needed him. Many four letter words were forming in his head to describe his situation, but he thought it best not to say any of them out loud.

Gotham City was not ready to stand on its own. Not yet and possibly not for awhile. Its white knight was dead, and, so far, no one was looking to step up to the plate—and who could blame them? Their nighttime crusader was now viewed as a crazy cop-killer, and their daytime hero had been hideously burned and then shot dead.

Bruce Wayne looked up at Wayne Tower standing before him. The sky had grown dark in the past few minutes, but the building and the plaza before it was illuminated by flood lights and the whirling red-white-blue of the police force's emergency beams. It had finally happened—Wayne Enterprises, the very core of the city, had been attacked. Someone was trying to get at the company that his great-great-grandfathers had started. Someone had taken one of his closest friends.

And suddenly, right then and there, his decision was made. Batman didn't like crime, and this was a huge criminal act right here. Bruce Wayne didn't like it when someone decided to attack his people.

For once, for the first time since Batman's creation, what was good for Batman would probably be good for Bruce Wayne too. He didn't like it, and a good part of him wanted to turn right around and get back on the freeway, but Thomas and Martha Wayne hadn't raised him to turn his back on family, and that was exactly what Lucius was. He'd lost enough in the past few weeks.

_Funny how this works, _he thought to himself as he walked back to his car. _Batman is coming back. Not forever and not for long—maybe not even for as long as Gotham needs him. But I can't turn my back on this, not on Lucius. _

He put the key in the ignition and sped away at twice the legal speed limit. He had some planning to do.

* * *

Alfred did not look at all surprised to see his young master. Then again, if Alfred had learned anything during his time as caretaker of Bruce Wayne, it was to never, ever let anything surprise you.

"I was wondering if I'd see you back here once the news broke."

"Were there any calls?"

Alfred nodded. "Yes, a few. Most from members of the board, each with a different story to tell, of course. I was going to call you, but then I saw that you were on the scene already." He nodded to the TV, where there was a live broadcast on GCTV of the situation in front of Wayne Tower.

Bruce shook his head. "They took Lucius, Alfred."

"I know, sir. Commissioner Gordon called a little while ago."

Bruce sat down on the couch and put his head on his hands. "I couldn't leave. I can't get away from this place when it seems to need me so much. I know that I should still be getting out of here, but I can't."

"I believe that's what they call a conscience, sir. You know that you can help and that you can make this city better, and that's what makes you want to stay, even against your better judgment."

Bruce realized that he'd never really thought about how annoying a conscience really was.

"You look like you could use a cup of strong tea, Master Bruce."

Bruce had never been much of a tea person, except when social obligations called for it, but the comforting drink sounded pretty good to him at the moment, so he nodded. Anything to clear his head and allow him to think a little bit about what he would do. He would sneak back into Wayne Tower when everyone had left and look for clues, and then—

There was a loud gasp and surprised yelp from the kitchen.

"Alfred?" he called out in concern. He jumped up from the couch and ran into the other room to check on the butler.

"The Johnson Market down the street delivered the groceries that I ordered a few minutes before you arrived back home. This was in the box." Alfred handed over a thick piece of photo paper and a letter. Bruce noticed that he was completely white and that his hands shook slightly.

"Sit, Alfred," he said, drawing a chair out from the table for the older man, who promptly sat. He'd never seen the old butler look so shaken before, and that made him even more nervous as he looked at the documents in his hand.

He looked at the photograph first. For ten whole seconds, it felt as though his body had completely lost any feeling—he was completely numb, not even a thought moving across his mind.

It was a girl tied to a chair, surrounded by oil drums. The look on her face was one of complete terror. It was Rachel and had unmistakably been taken right before she died.

"Who would have sent this?" Bruce asked, his voice a harsh whisper. The Joker was in a federal prison hundreds of miles away—it couldn't have been him. His people maybe? Someone working with him?

"I don't know sir. I didn't read the note."

Bruce tore his eyes away from the morbid picture, his heart hammering in his chest as he blinked back tears. He felt anger and disgust beginning to build from the pit of his stomach as he flipped over the letter and began to read.

It was written on thick, engraved card stock, the kind that only people who had thousands of dollars to waste on stationary could afford. People like Bruce. The handwriting was elegant and flowing, certainly not the sort that you'd expect from a criminal.

_Dearest Bruce,_

_ Roses are red_

_ Violets are Blue_

_ I'd be the first in spring tonight with your checkbook_

_ If I were you_

_ (That is, if you care enough about your family pride…or anything at all)_

Bruce stared at the short note for a full minute. "What?!" was his highly intelligent response. He reread to make sure he'd gotten it all.

Alfred looked over his shoulder to read it. "It appears to be some sort of puzzle sir."

"Then what is this for?" Bruce held up the photograph, refusing to look at it.

"And how did it get into the delivery box, I wonder? You can't understand the logic of these people, Master Bruce."

Bruce pulled up a chair at the table and sat down, staring at the paper in front of him as Alfred bustled around, getting the tea that he'd promised earlier. He found it best in times like these to ignore whatever happened to be going on (unless Master Bruce was in immediate danger, of course) and go about his business like it was an ordinary day.

"My family pride? What is my family pride? Something that my father did? Definitely not something that I did. What does that even mean?" Frustration put an angry edge on his voice as he tried to force his brain to make sense of the poem. "And 'anything at all.' Do they mean Lucius? Do they mean Rachel? Or something else?"

Alfred put a steaming cup of tea in front of his young master. "I suggest that you calm down for a moment, Master Bruce. It'll help you think clearly."

As though he was a little boy, Bruce immediately sat back in his chair and took a sip of the tea. He took a few seconds and then looked back at the poem. "I guess the 'family pride' could mean Wayne Enterprises—I mean, it's been everything to the Wayne family for generations."

"That's better," Alfred nodded. "And that sounds like it could be quite right."

"The checkbook part is pretty obvious. I guess they want money."

"Yes, well, why commit a crime this large if you're not going to be adequately paid for it?"

"But the first in spring? Tonight? We're in the middle of the spring, so they can't mean tonight tonight. Do they want us to wait for the first day of spring next year? No, that doesn't make sense," Bruce continued, thinking out loud."Wait…does Spring Street downtown ever intersect First Avenue?"

Alfred nodded. "I believe so. It's a very bad neighborhood, sir, but they do intersect."

Bruce slapped the table with his hand in triumph. "They want to meet at Spring Street and First Avenue tonight, and they're probably going to demand money for something—or someone, probably Lucius."

"And you think that they sent this picture just to shake you up a bit?"

Bruce paused for a moment. His grand revelation stopped short of explaining the photograph. "I guess so…but the fact that they were able to get their hands on this makes me uncomfortable."

Alfred hesitated. "Sir…do you think that they could have Miss Rachel?"

Time seemed to stop for a moment as Bruce considered this. Could they? He would hand over every cent of the billions and billions of dollars to his name if it meant getting her back, and he would do it in a heartbeat. And then he remembered the Joker, the cruel mind games he had played, and the undeniable outcome of Batman and the police being outwitted by the lunatic clown on that fateful night. No, Rachel was dead. He was sure of it.

He shook his head. "They did it to intimidate us, to show me that they're not playing around. It's odd, though. Whoever wrote this letter must know me pretty well or at least watch me closely. Not that many people know that I was so close to Rachel." That thought made him even more uncomfortable. His relationship with Rachel had always been part of his very private life, the small bit of him that was neither Batman nor Bruce Wayne the Billionaire. The fact that someone had seen into that was frightening. Was his mask starting to slip up?

"Don't you want to check for fingerprints of some sort?"

"This guy, whoever he is, is good, Alfred. You can run it as a precaution, but I really doubt that you'll find anything."

"It's a bit troubling, isn't it?"

At that, Bruce had to crack a smile. "Wayne Tower, the most secure building in the city—perhaps even the country, except for maybe the White House and the Capitol—is broken into. The CEO is kidnapped. I'm getting sent ransom notes and disturbing pictures. Yes, I would say that the situation is a bit troubling."

"And what are you going to do about it? Is your bat friend about to make another appearance?"

Bruce walked over to the window and stared out at the lit up city. Night hadn't completely fallen yet, but it would soon. He had to make a decision fast.

"I think that I might bring the suit along. It's always smart to bring a change of clothes when you're not sure what you're getting yourself into."

A familiar tingle was spreading over his limbs. It was excitement, the thrill of the hunt beginning to take over his body.

And then, quite suddenly, although he wore no mask or cape, it was Batman, not Bruce Wayne, who stood overlooking the city.

**A/N: Like I said before, expect another chapter soon!! I promise that this one will have less angst and more actions (although I do like to make my characters suffer ). Thanks so much for reading!**


	5. Chapter Four

**A/N: I am so, so sorry for the delay. This semester at college has been absolutely insane. I'm not sure how much I'll be able to update, but I will do all that I can to try and fit some writing time in to finish this story. Thank you so much to the people who have still been submitting reviews and favoriting me, even though I haven't given you anything new to look at since the summer! I apologize that this isn't up to my usual standards (yes, I realize that I've said that for the past few chapters)--I just didn't have the time to really take a good look at it, but I really wanted to give all of you something to read. Stay tuned for more!**

**These Scars**

**Chapter Four**

It was possible, it seemed, for two people to be in the exact same place at once.

That place happened to be the driver's seat of a cherry red Ferrari. The people happened to be both Bruce Wayne and Batman.

Bruce was having a bit of a dilemma as he drove towards downtown Gotham. He'd spent the past hour or so mending his suit where the Joker's knives had managed to pierce the mesh fabric between the Kevlar plates, but he hadn't quite figured out what he was going to do with it yet. Arriving on the scene as Batman would basically announce the fact that the mysterious crime fighter had something to do with Bruce Wayne, since no one but Bruce was really supposed to see the note. He'd been through enough brushes with letting his secret identity out in the past few weeks, and the last person he wanted knowing that there was a connection between him and Batman was whoever had had the nerve (or insane mind) to send that picture of Rachel to him.

But was he really insane enough to walk into a situation like this completely unarmed, playing the baffled billionaire playboy who was stopping by the potentially dangerous scenario en-route to a dinner party on a yacht? The answer was that the public face of Bruce was, but Batman wasn't.

Which left him in a bit of a predicament. The last thing that he wanted was to be late to whatever meeting this was. He wasn't planning on giving the person the money they would probably request. The only plan that was currently forming in his mind was, if things turned violent, he'd run into some sort of alley and change…really fast. Bruce had mastered the quick-change better than any Broadway actor, but he was pretty sure that Bruce Wayne running into an alleyway and emerging (five minutes later…that was the quickest he'd managed so far) as Batman might attract some attention.

He drew closer and closer to First and Spring, apprehension growing a little bit. He felt vulnerable walking into a situation like this without an inch of Kevlar between him and his enemy. He didn't want to admit it, but he did depend on the suit.

And the suit was from Lucius. The thought sprung into his head as he turned down Spring Street. His hands tightened on the leather-wrapped steering wheel. The priority in the situation was finding the person who had taken his CEO and secret weapon-crafter.

He parked the Ferrari on block back from First and Spring on Second Avenue and slipped out into the night. The buildings here, like in so many neighborhoods in Gotham, were run down—bricks crumbling, windows broken. A few daring citizens could be seen slipping through the shadows on their way home to their apartments, their eyes wary as they watched for any potential muggers or worse.

Ras a Ghul's lessons were instilled in his muscles, and almost without thinking, he gravitated towards the places where his dark clothing would help him blend in—alleyways, dark doorsteps, and the like. He couldn't see anyone who might be of interest to him.

And then, suddenly, a long, lithe figure stepped out into the middle of the intersection. It obviously a woman, but she was masked and wearing all black.

"Bruce Wayne…I know you're here." Her voice had laughter in it, with a slightly flirtatious edge that struck Bruce as ominous. "Brucie, dear, we're a bit too old to play hide and seek, aren't we?"

Bruce noted that the street was now completely devoid of people. That wasn't good.

She laughed, a high, trilling sound that echoed down the deserted street. "Well, then. How about I count to ten, and if you don't show you're pretty little head by then, your dear friend Lucius will lose his?" Out of her pocket, she pulled a small silver remote. A detonator. "Do you know what this is Bruce? Do you want to find out? Ten…nine…"

Bruce wasn't close enough to tell if she was lying or not, but there was a detonator in her hand that could very well lead to a bomb wherever Lucius was. He could try to call her bluff, but if he guessed wrong, he'd have the death of one of his friends on his conscience.

"I'm here."

It was probably a stupid move, but he honestly couldn't think of anything else to do. He stepped out of the shadows and into the streetlight-lit intersection. "I'm here."

The woman turned to face him. Her hair was hidden under her full face mask, and he could only make out a pair of glittering blue eyes. "Well, well, well. The boy did show up. Now is he just incredibly brave or incredibly stupid? Funny how the line between those two is always a little bit blurry." She took another step forward. "But…who are we kidding? You're Bruce Wayne. You're only brave when it comes to spending Daddy's money, aren't you? You look like your father, but you have Martha's smile. I've seen it in all of the papers."

"So what do you want so that we can get out of here?" Bruce had been rehearsing his tone of voice in the car—part laconic billionaire drawl with a healthy injection of shakiness. "Do you want money or what?"

The high, trilling laugh sounded again. She sounded like a debutante after a few too many wine toasts. "My darling boy," she called loudly. She took a few more steps forward, quickly closing the gap in between him. Batman's muscles tensed up, begging to throw the first punch, but Bruce simply stood there, forcing himself to keep his breathing even. Bruce Wayne didn't know how to act in this situation.

"Do you know who this is, Brucie?" From her jacket pocket, she drew out a photograph and handed it to him. He flipped it over and there was Rachel, smiling up at him. She wore the beautiful navy dress she'd had on at the fundraiser that he'd thrown for Harvey Dent, and her blue eyes sparkled.

"It's Dent's girl. She was at the party I threw. Pretty, but not my type." His voice was perfectly offhand, save for the slight hoarseness that would have indicated his surprise if the woman knew to look for it. "If you wanted to set me up with someone, we could have just done this over the phone."

"Oh, but Bruce, darling, she's much more than that, isn't she?" The woman sounded delighted by his answer. Then her voice became hard as she began to walk a circle around him. "I'll ask you again. Who is this girl?"

"I don't know what you mean." His voice shook now, a ploy to show that the playboy was getting nervous, that she was getting to him. Inside of that mask, Bruce's mind was racing as he tried to fit the puzzle pieces together. It was an impossible task—the big pieces, the corner ones that you used to figure out everything else, were missing.

She stopped right in front of him. He noted the subtle shift in her balance. She was leaning more into her knees and the balls of her feet—ready to run or pounce. "Fine then." From her pocket, she pulled out a silver revolver and toyed with it in her hand. "That is Rachel Dawes. You can play games with me, Bruce, but I know all about her. I know that her mother worked for your parents until they were murdered. I now that you had her and Dent followed in order to learn more about their relationship—a bit jealous, were we? I know that she's stopped by your apartment at least once a week for the past month—a bit odd, really, considering who you are and who she is. So tell me, Bruce, how does it feel to know that she's dead?"

"Not that good. I donated money to her family, though." He used his bewildered expression as a mask once again. "Since you don't seem to want anything, can I go now?"

"Not so fast." She placed a gloved hand on his chin briefly. "What would you do if I told you that I have her and I have your beloved little CEO as well?"

"I wouldn't believe you."

"Oh, but why wouldn't you? How else do I have these photos? How else do I know so much about your personal life?"

"What do you want?!" His voice was loud and ragged, not entirely a mask. She was wearing him down. His nerves felt raw.

She laughed again. "Ah, so we're getting somewhere. Right now, darling, I don't want anything. But I promise you that later, I will. Consider this to be the first punch."

"I don't understand what you're saying."

Her voice lost all of its carefree tone. She was suddenly serious. "Then consider this. I am here to warn you that I am going to break you, Bruce Wayne. You won't know how and you won't know when, but consider this the end of the Wayne's reign of Gotham. Your days as a pampered little princeling are over. I know what makes you tick; I know what makes your skin crawl. You cannot escape me, Bruce. I will have all of your friends, but you won't know where. I will burn this city to the ground if that's what it takes. I've been under the heel of the Waynes for long enough. I may have failed with Martha and Thomas, but I certainly won't fail with you."

Bruce stood for a moment, momentarily stunned. She used that precious second to disappear, dashing into the night like a serpent slithers into a forest.

After taking that moment to recover, Bruce sprinted towards his car. It occurred to him that not since his parents' death had he been in a confrontation like this as Bruce Wayne, and that had been the only time in his life that it had happened. If anything had ever driven home the idea that Batman and Bruce had become two different people, it was this situation. It turned out that not only did Batman have physical armor, he was better at defending himself mentally as well. Batman was an enigma—he had no friends, he had no family. Bruce Wayne was not like that. He was a person, not some phantom who appeared when he happened to think that he was needed. When you took those things away from him, it hit him hard.

He climbed into the Ferrari and sped away at lightning speed, accelerating from zero to one hundred in a space of time that was not recommendable in such a small street. The squeal of the tires comforted him slightly. Adrenaline was pulsing through his body. He wasn't thinking straight—he was feeling.

Whoever this woman was, she was definitely the one who had orchestrated the attack on Wayne Enterprises. She also seemed to have some sort of personal vendetta directed at the Wayne family—who could that be? They'd donated to every charity in existence in Gotham, had funded ninety percent of the city's projects for the less fortunate. He could see people being jealous at their wealth, yes, but this blind outrage seemed unfounded.

He realized, as he sped towards his apartment building, that lots of people had had it out for Batman, but no one had truly ever come after Bruce Wayne before. The idea both exhilarated and frightened him.


End file.
